


some unholy war

by disheveledcurls



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Brief Mentions of Suicide Ideation, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Death Threats, Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach Falls, Reichenbach Feels, Reichenswap, Reverse Reichenbach, brief mentions of drug use ideation, implied depression, implied holmes family, implied watson family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-08-19 18:34:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16539926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disheveledcurls/pseuds/disheveledcurls
Summary: Watson has accepted a dangerous mission and she leaves in two days. Sherlock is not prepared to let that happen.(Or, the reverse-Reichenbach AU no one asked for, but you’re getting anyway.)





	1. the dying of the light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Keenir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keenir/gifts).



> 1) Spoilers for major s1 and s2 plot points.  
> 2) Timeline geekery: This AU story is set in a post s5 timeline where the Shinwell plot didn’t happen and Mycroft is still fake-dead and in hiding.

I touch you knowing that we weren’t born tomorrow,

and somehow, each of us will help the other live,

and somewhere, each of us must help the other die.

 

from _Twenty-One Love Poems_ , III, by Adrienne Rich.

 

“There’s a few letters,” Watson instructs him, two days before her departure, in that awful, studiously collected tone he’s very quickly come to hate. You’d think she was discussing the particulars of a run-of-the-mill business trip, not the life-or-death stakes of an intelligence operation which essentially amounts to playing cat and mouse with one of the world’s deadliest criminal minds. There’s no undignified theatrics, just her usual diligence in overdrive, which just makes it worse. Sherlock almost wishes she would break down and change her mind, refuse the mission she volunteered for so readily. _Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light._ But he knows her too well to seriously entertain the possibility. Bravery, strength, reliability, honor: these are the traits that make Watson, Watson. Normally he wouldn’t have it any other way. And yet.

 “Just in case,” she adds, with a shrug, her gaze fixed on the orange she’s peeling. “Would you make sure they reach who they have to reach, if it comes to that?”

 Sherlock nods absently, his frustration reaching yet another boiling point. A moment later he stands up abruptly, the food he’s been picking at decidedly forgotten. How could dinner matter? Watson is leaving in less than forty-eight hours. The estimated duration of the mission —if she’s lucky enough to make it back alive— is three years. His stomach twists into knots at the mere thought, at the unfairness of even the best case scenario. He walks up to Watson in a few brisk strides and stands at her side, staring into her profile and trying to come up with an argument that will convince her to stay, a battle he has fought and lost before. He no longer cares if he looks or sounds desperate; he no longer has the luxuries of vanity and repression. “I would vastly prefer not to have to deliver such letters. In fact, I would vastly prefer it if they weren’t needed at all.”

 Watson sighs and pops an orange wedge into her mouth. She does not flee as she so often does when anticipating a difficult conversation. He doesn’t want to interrogate what that means. She folds her arms, arches an intrigued eyebrow and waits, chewing, saying nothing.

 “Don’t go,” Sherlock says, as urgently as he did the first time. He’ll have this argument a thousand times if it’ll change her mind, if it’ll get her to stay put and safe and sound. But he knows perfectly well that nothing will deter her, that she will see this through, regardless of the odds. _She is extraordinary in ways you cannot even imagine._ How he wishes, now, that she were not. “Since you will not listen to reason, I’m - I’m begging you not to do this.”

 She sighs again, shakes her head wearily. “Please, Sherlock. I’ve made my decision. I’m not letting her terrorize us anymore.”

 “I just don’t want it to be the last decision you ever make.”

 She rolls her eyes and tilts her head, her gaze acquiring that flinty disposition that signals her patience’s running out. “We’ve been over this. You know why I have to go.”

 And, much to his chagrin, he does. In the space of two weeks, there have been several meetings with MI6, Interpol and the FBI, as well as with Marcus and Captain Gregson, the only ones at the NYPD they trust enough to keep in the loop; and there have been long, extenuating preliminary conversations in which Watson stubbornly laid out before him every single argument in favor of this absurd plan: how it had to be her, because Moriarty knew him too well and would see through him from a mile away, and because Moriarty’s threats to Watson’s relatives were too urgent and specific, and because the government agencies involved had assessed the situation and dictated the time was right and Watson’s plan was the best way to take down Moriarty once and for all, and on and on went the list, until he couldn’t listen to any more. He has considered, then discarded, a myriad ways he could sabotage the plan to keep Watson from going, all equally pointless.

  _If we do nothing, Moriarty hurts my family,_ Watson said last night, during another row about the mission. _If you go and the plan fails,_ _she’ll kill us both_ _anyway. The only way we have a shot is if I do it._ She made perfect sense, and yet the flawless logic of her words repelled him so much that he stormed out of the brownstone and wandered on the streets for the better part of the night in a frenzy, sure that if he stopped for a second and actually let himself accept what would happen in two days’ time he would either buy and consume his weight in heroin or jump off the George Washington bridge into the Hudson or both, in quick succession. Frightened of his own thoughts, he ended up staying over at Alfredo’s until this morning. Knowing full well he could not share exactly what was tormenting him, Sherlock came up with a suitable white lie _—_ an extremely challenging confidential case that had him on edge, fearing for both his own and Watson’s lives. Alfredo was as supportive as usual, but what useful advice could he possibly give, knowing so little? Obviously, compared to the lonely, desolate alternative _,_ allowing Alfredo to take him to a support meeting, and then spending a few hours in his friend’s company was the right thing to do. But what a pitiful night it was nonetheless.

 Now the plan has been set in motion. There are intelligence operatives waiting for Watson overseas; her bags are packed upstairs, her room, once more, nearly empty. “I understand something has to be done,” Sherlock concedes at last, trying to keep his voice even. “I fail to see why you wish to be a part of it.”

 “ _Wish_?” she scoffs incredulously. “You think I want to go?”

 “Watson, you _volunteered_.”

 She straightens up, her shoulders square with tension. He’s made her angry, Sherlock realizes with an obscure kind of satisfaction. He steps even closer until he’s inches from her, vibrating with furious energy, refusing to really believe she leaves the day after tomorrow, that she has accepted what is basically a suicide mission. For what? Some long-dormant God’s complex? Some misguided notion of vengeance? How could she possibly think either reason —or any other, really— is worth risking her life over?

 “I’m doing this for my family,” she enunciates slowly, like he’s being obtuse. “I have to stop her before she hurts them.” 

 He shakes his head. “Not good enough.”

 “Don’t be a hypocrite,” she retorts, narrowing her eyes skeptically. “If you were in my shoes, you’d do the same.”

 He lets out a strangled, bitter sound that can’t even attempt to pass for a laugh. “Watson, please. I wouldn’t dirty my hands for Mycroft, much less for the evil lizard I have for a father. Moriarty can torch them both to ashes for all I care.”

 Watson shakes her head, not letting him off the hook. “For your real family you would,” she insists. “If she had threatened the people you care about, I know you would do the same as me.”

 Unable to deny it, Sherlock shakes his head mutely and makes as if to leave, but she stands in his way, her eyes alight with an intensity he hasn’t seen in years. “Stop fucking _leaving_ when I’m trying to talk to you.” She’s barely raised her voice, but her outburst is rare enough to pin him down on the spot, even after she’s taken a step back to give him some breathing room. He would point out it’s her turn now to be a hypocrite, but what’s the use? If all is lost and she will truly leave him, he’s not going to let anger and futile, belated recriminations be his only memories from their last days together.

 “I will not stop you from going,” he says finally, staring at his shoes as he does so. “In fact, I will do everything I can to make sure the mission is successful. But I am not—” He swallows around the knot in his throat and tries again. “I’m not as strong as you. If anything happens to you, you know what’s going to happen to me.”

 “What an awful thing to say,” she spits out, and he looks up, startled by the disappointment in her tone. “That’s not fair to me.”

 “ _Fair_?” he echoes in disbelief. “What’s fair about any of this? You’re leaving me to fend for myself for three years, if we’re lucky. How am I expected to cope?” When she hesitates, he presses his case: “Do I tell our friends the truth and endanger their lives? Do I soldier on alone? How do you expect me to stick to the program when I won’t even be able to be honest with my sponsor about the very thing that’s making me want to use? I don’t think fulfilling my side of the mission is going to do wonders for my sobriety, do you?” Watson’s eyes are bright with unshed tears, but Sherlock goes on. If she wants an honest confrontation, he can give as good as he gets. “I’m not saying this to manipulate you. I know I cannot stop you from going. But you clearly didn’t stop to consider how this would affect me. So don’t expect me to take it well. And don’t bloody talk to me about fairness.”

 When he’s done, Watson nods slowly several times, wiping at the tears that stream down her face. She neither recoils nor denies anything. “I understand it’s going to be hard for you,” she begins. “I’m really sorry about that. You know I never intended to hurt you.” Her voice breaks on the last two words and he has to look away. “But you’re wrong about one thing,” she resumes, clearing her throat. “You _are_ strong enough. That’s why I can do this. Because I know even if I fail, you’ll never give up. ‘Cause then what would be the point of all this?” She makes a circling gesture that encompasses them both, as well as the familiar sights around them: her red cardigan hanging off the back of a chair, Clyde in his terrarium and a pot of honey from their rooftop hive tucked into the corner of a shelf behind her. “If I die, you’ll make sure I didn’t die for nothing.”

 He winces at the thought and turns away, but he his feet won’t seem to take him any further.

 “Promise me,” she demands, stubbornly, to his back. “Promise me you’ll survive this even if I don’t.”

 When he covers his face with one hand and fails to respond, Watson goes around his motionless form and comes to stand before him, so close he can smell the unassuming scent of the shampoo they have been sharing, lemon and mint. (There was no point restocking on her fancy hair-care products and lotions, she reasoned, as soon as she made her decision. Not this close to the end of her time at the brownstone, anyway. What purpose could they serve in her long absence? She would just use whatever they had in the house for her last few days, she decided. There is no his and hers anymore, it seems, only a crisp-scented _we_ that he will soon, too soon, have to inhabit alone.) “Please, Sherlock,” she whispers, reaching out boldly to lace his free hand with hers, her fingers still sticky from the orange juice she hasn’t thought to rinse yet. “Please promise me.”

 Sherlock lets his hand drop off his face and looks at her. He looks at her unabashedly, for a long time, as he has always wished to and rarely dared to. Watson patiently lets him be, and she reaches up with her other hand to wipe at the tears he doesn’t realize he’s shedding. He drops his head to her shoulder and gives in to imaginings of the worst possible ending: the mission failing spectacularly, Moriarty victorious, and Watson joining the ranks of people he has loved and lost. Oren’s and Lin’s hopeless disbelief; Mary Watson’s stony, righteous rage; Gregson’s and Marcus’s disappointment in him; Kitty’s and Ms. Hudson’s and Alfredo’s stunned grief. He sees himself leaving the brownstone, and New York, for good, returning to his old Baker Street lodgings and roaming around his native city with unseeing eyes until he meets his end, whether by Moriarty’s hand or his own, it matters not. He can hardly even see himself attempting to hunt Moriarty down to take revenge, as he so resolutely did once, though it seems now a lifetime away. What would it matter even if he succeeded? Death cannot be undone, which makes revenge —that self-indulgent act of belated poetic justice— a useless, impotent afterthought. _But it doesn’t have to be like that_ , protests a timidly hopeful voice in his head. A memory returns to him to introduce a new variable: _What’s different about me, empirically speaking, is you_.

 And so he allows himself to imagine the best: Watson returning safe and sound; Moriarty vanquished; and the beginning of a peaceful, happy future Watson has spoken of only in rare, candid moments, the prospect of it so difficult to actually consider a reality that he can only picture it by cross-referencing dozens of remembered conversations with five years’ worth of deductions and conjectures about the walking cipher that is his partner. Now, _in extremis_ , with his eyes closed and Watson’s hands anchored protectively around the back of his neck, he can see it more clearly than ever: years of thrilling shared investigations ahead, their found family growing merrily around them, and the sensible, unassuming house upstate where they would while away their retirement years, surrounded by books, with enough room to accommodate visits from friends, and with a garden for Clyde and their bees, and for Watson to finally get that dog she’s always going on about. He sees himself clean and sober and content, writing the _Practical Handbook,_ at last, and Watson volunteering her medical skills wherever they are most needed, her healing hands once more put to good use, her longing to help finally satisfied. It nearly strikes him dumb, how much he wants this sturdy and intricate and beautiful notion of a future. In the face of this want, it’s his fear that seems inconsequential, a mere nightmare soon forgotten upon waking. The future seems no less dependable than Watson herself, her hands holding him steadily in place even now, as yet another vast, intimidating gulf is about to open up between what is and what could be. And Sherlock wants and wants, so much so that giving up is no longer an option.

 He opens his eyes, moves his head slightly to press his forehead against Watson’s and cups the side of her face with one hand. “I promise,” he says at last, with a heavy sigh. “I promise I shall live, if only out of spite.”

 Watson gasps a feeble chuckle, releases him to wipe at the corners of her eyes and smirks faintly. “You say the nicest things.”

 He pulls back, shrugs, shoves his hands into his pockets and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “It doesn't mean I approve of this _demented_ crusade you’re setting on, mind you.”

 She tilts her head, raises an amused eyebrow and folds her arms, an endearing and familiar gesture of casual defiance. “Well, I don’t need your approval,” she says amiably, and some kind of unclassifiable emotion flutters violently like a caged bird in his chest. She looks down only for a moment, as if bracing herself, and then meets his eyes again, devastatingly open. “But thank you for promising. For everything, always.”

 He can think of nothing to say to that, so he nods a few times, then reaches for one of her hands and bends to kiss it. “You’re quite welcome,” he manages, at last, as he straightens up.

 Watson grins ruefully, though he can’t figure out what it is she finds so funny. She juts out her elbow and he takes it without question, and she begins to lead the way towards the stairs. “There’s something else you can help with,” she says softly, as they ascend. “Let’s go tell the bees.”   


	2. funeral blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson is dead. Sherlock is waiting.
> 
> (Set shortly after the events of Ch. 1, same timeline)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes, I’m writing more of this. I apologize, I guess.)
> 
>  **Warnings:** implied major character death; implied death threats; mentions of funeral arrangements. Spoilers for major s1 plot points -- do not read on if you haven’t reached the s1 finale. Minor s5 spoilers.

 

Either love is **—**  a shrine?

or else a scar.

from _Poem of the End,_ by Marina Tsvetaeva

 

“Yun Jingyi,” Sherlock says at last, pressing a trembling hand to the smooth dark wood. “Joan Watson.” Respect compelled him to say both her names, but it’s made it worse somehow, like she’s twice as lost.

 Why did it take her funeral for him to find out that her Chinese name means _quiet joy_? How can he have let her withdraw, hide herself away, over and over for years? What a waste of time that was. And there’s no fixing it, now that she’s gone.

Of course she isn’t really, of course he will never have to actually do this. He will die first someday, most probably. He’d better. Pretending is hard enough as it is. He goes on, pushing past the knot in his throat. “Having you for a partner and a friend has been the greatest joy of my life.” He sighs nervously and finds that his voice breaks as he adds, “Saying goodbye today is its greatest sorrow.”

Behind him, Ms. Hudson’s quiet, graceful sobbing resumes. Mary Watson is too angry to cry. Sherlock sympathizes. _Your daughter chose to go into the lion’s den, Mrs. Watson. And the worst part is I helped her do it_. It should’ve been his job to finish Moriarty once and for all; wasn’t she his monster, his responsibility? But once Watson made up her mind, there was no talking her out of it. And so off she went, to slay monsters, and here he is, playing his part as the grieving partner. It’s not a part that’s particularly hard to play.

 _And she may very well die anyway,_ whispers a malicious voice in his ear. If the plan fails, if Moriarty discovers the elaborate trap they are setting for her, with Watson’s death for a red herring and Sherlock himself for bait, retaliation will be swift and horrific. It’s not as if Moriarty’s murderous fixation on Watson has abated over the years. Much to his chagrin, Sherlock was all too aware of that long before Moriarty broke out of prison, fled to Europe and threatened the lives of Watson’s entire family.  Only a year or so ago, soon after that ghastly night when Watson was taken hostage in a diner, Sherlock received a note from Moriarty, one he kept from Watson as he did so many other things: _My dear Sherlock, do try to take better care of our mascot_ . _It wouldn’t do to lose her before our game is over. But you mustn’t worry, I have far better manners than the petty criminals you usually encounter. When I finally get my hands on her, I’ll be sure to return her to you. Piece by piece._

He squeezes his eyes shut against that mental image and breathes as deeply as he can. When he unclenches his fists, opens his eyes and looks briefly over his shoulder, he meets Alfredo’s concerned, somber gaze as the other man rises to give his own eulogy. Sherlock gestures for his friend to give him a moment. Another torturous image of Watson dead and dumped unceremoniously in an ordinary ditch whips at his consciousness and he cringes, bracing himself lightly on the sturdy coffin, whose wood is warm now under his hands. After a moment, Sherlock straightens up, willing himself to focus. _The coffin’s empty, you fool_ , he tells himself. _And she will come back_.

It’s time to finish this. He doesn’t even have to lie for this part. He bows his head. “I have loved you more than I ever thought possible,” he announces softly, to a woman who isn’t there and who probably already knows. He’s strangely unconcerned with what her loved ones may think of it. “And I will miss you every day of my life.”

Then he turns away and strides out of the unpretentious funeral home chapel into an incongruously bright summer day. After the stuffy semi-darkness of that room, the rush of sunlight makes him squint. He stands in the middle of the sidewalk, blinded, remembering.

(Watson slept fitfully the day before her departure, bathed in the grey light of dawn. He had meant to lay her breakfast on her bed as he so often did —since her so-called bedside table was actually still a very cluttered chair, after all these years— but found himself abruptly unable to step into her room, and had to set the tray down on the hallway floor with shaky hands. He stood at the threshold for a long time, committing her to memory, as a terrible numbing sadness spread over him. What would be the purpose of mornings, from now on? What would be the purpose of anything? Worse still, how could such hyperboles feel utterly true? Later, when she woke, Watson told him she had dreamt of him praying over her, grinning ruefully into her teacup at the implausibility of it. _Sherlock Holmes, world-famous miracle worker!_ He has not smiled since.)

But when he opens his eyes he is still standing on the sidewalk alone and empty-handed, still a mourner. He runs a hand over his face and heads back into the chapel. The funeral will be over soon. The waiting’s just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I originally intended this to be a 221b, but who has two thumbs, speaks limited French, and is incapable of summarizing? Cette mademoiselle!  
> 2\. Title from W.H. Auden’s wonderful poem of the same name.  
> 3\. I don’t speak Chinese, so I apologize if I’ve misrepresented the meaning of the name _Jingyi._ The interpretation Sherlock mentions can be found here: https://www.behindthename.com/name/jingyi  
> 4\. Beta'd by amindamazed & sanguinarysanguinity ages ago -- sorry, it took me ages to get it ready for publication. Any mistakes or inaccuracies are my own.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Originally written as my 2018 Winter Holmestice gift for Keenir. Hopefully it'll be a nice surprise despite the angst!  
> 2\. The reverse-Reichenbach-falls/Reichenswap concept isn’t at all my own. I’m too bad at plot and too lazy to write the whole thing, so here’s a taste of what it could’ve been.  
> 3\. The idea of Sherlock & Joan retiring upstate & Joan getting back into practising medicine in some way isn’t my own either, but it’s one of my favorite headcanons (and it's been used beautifully in stories such as "Le Chanson des Vieux Amants"), which is why I wanted to integrate it into the fic.  
> 4\. Title from Amy Winehouse’s lovely song of the same name.  
> 5\. @Amindamazed’s and @sanguinarysanguinity’s input was quite valuable in helping me workshop this fic, which was then graciously beta’d by @comaftermejackrobinson. Any mistakes or inaccuracies are my own.  
> 6\. Some of the opinions herein expressed may not be healthy --I may not even agree with them--, but I have strived to make them in-character.  
> 7\. The “Rage, rage against the dying of the light” line quoted by Sherlock in his inner monologue is, of course, from Dylan Thomas’s poem “Do not go gentle into that good night.”


End file.
